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Bryden Jul 2018
I push the button,
The jaws of the train clunk as its mouth opens,
the 9am crowd surging through its hollow body,
eying up the row of sickly plastic benches.
The wheels tighten, I loosen my tie,
off to the office, I sigh,
as I pull out today’s ‘New York Times’.

My eyes drift towards the woman across from me.
A fragrance of citrus and strawberry drifts off her shoulder
as she plumps her pout in the screen of her smartphone.
A bead of sweat poised on her collarbone
glitters like the diamantes on her nails.

We slow,
screeching against the rusted tracks
before the machine-lady hybrid speaks:
a split second pause
-Sixty Seven Street’.
No one gets off, so we simply sit
beneath the sizzle of electric bulbs,
their garish light numbed by ***** glass
that cradles the bodies of last week’s flies.

Like an aged rattlesnake, the train creaks and hisses through the tunnel.
I’m attacked by a river of thick black hair
belonging to an olive-skinned woman who yaps into her cellphone:
‘no, no, quiero ver Times Square!’
I close my eyes and listen as her tongue rolls and dives
taking a bite of my bagel from Starbucks.

-Seventy Two Street’.
Although preoccupied with different thoughts,
the bodies on the carriage drift and sway with the motion of the train,
as it stops
and starts once more.

Two children in uniforms twirl around the carriage,
their laughter more electric
than the current that bristles below our feet.
A man
tickled by the dreadlock that sweeps over his face,
looks on with jeans so baggy
his legs melt into the seat.
The Jamaican flag blares from his t-shirt.

Next to him, a man bakes in a moth-eaten waistcoat
clutching a wallet with quivering fingers.
I follow his gaze to a picture of a woman
black and white with coffee stained edges.
His wrinkles deepen as he smiles at his
I notice glittery pools of the past forming in his eyes,
perhaps not.

my stop
-Seventy Nine Street’.
As I glance down at the platform’s monotonous shades of concrete,
and brush the dust from my grey tweed suit,
I think to myself
how colourful Upper-East Side is.
I shall never stop travelling on the 9am subway to Seventh Avenue.
Without it,
how boring my life would be.
Without it,
I wouldn’t be me.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
oh... so now i know where my
"st. vitus'" take on sporadic,
uncontrollable dance routines
took place:
drunk, i attempted to


   each and every time i attempted

to whistle...

   i burst into a fire and fury
of laughter, as if i waa hearing
political satire!
every single time i'd try to whistle:
     a bit like watching
the laws surrounding marihuana,
on a friday evening
lodged in amsterdam...
      asking myself:
am i here for the ****...
         or the puerto rican plumps
of pork chops still breathing
with a 17th century fetish
                  for excesses?

perhaps neither...
   perhaps both...
   i'll have heiny ec-ken
                 (bite of a buttocks)
nekken -
                (bite of the neck):

  i really expected
   matthew mcconaughey
to be much taller, in real life,
let alone the oscars' ceremony.

i.e. is that a ******,
       or a ******* leprechaun?

no good trying to whistle,
when all you can do
in "return" is to giggle at the attempt, to.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
“reminding me to remember what has yet to occur”

~for Jean Fisher~

this poem title lay fallow now near four months;
the poem title, a riddle in and of itself,
my inability/reluctance to bring it to a
spoiled fruition is simply and sumptuously explained,
no idea what it meant and
cause I got an F in future-telling in 8th grade,
when we still believed anything,
even hap-hap-happy was a possibility

all day long fits and spurts;
a sad poem rattles around in every part of my overcast Saturn day,
this last eked out September pretend summer weekend,
bereftness so powerful,
that the weather is slapping me down, hard, for begging,
gray grey sadness in the windless stillness

do you deserve it?

the death of summer is a tree ring completed, a marker of
nearer-my-death that I dare only utter to my pillow,
hoping it won’t betray my statelessness to whomever makes the bed and plumps up them pillows up into squealing my hidden  
truths and trust

birthing the past is easy and not what the title,
words I wrote somewhere, is asking for;
no so more straying and to the
scribbling and pecking
do I attend
that title commenced ironically at the end of May
when the summer man feathered his mental nest once more

and now my blindness clarified.
now when summer commences, was I not secretly reminding myself of what was sure to occur -
that troubles will come in cold and snow,
and no longer will the little house by the sun bathed bay be an available antidote to the real toxins that grow stronger

this then
was the clarion self-hint to prepare,
reminder to self
for the summery summation-end inevitable,
for the perfect ending of this poem

now that I have accurately
predicted my future
the title has borne its
bittersweet fruits
wrote this title down on May 23rd
whenever I stumbled upon it,
no poem came running

until  this ugly September 8th
Heather Butler Mar 2012
Well, what now, hey?
     I threw the dog overboard yesterday.
     The day before, the day?
Where will you go, hey?

I heard the orchestra-man play
The same way,
     Sanctum, requiem, asylum
All Latin in his French dog-eared play.

     Hear the monkey, playing accordion play
To the whirling whirly-whirly-ghig
     Tre dramatique, no? Today
I understand you're just as "tramatig."

I want to hear your Frenchmen play
Play ***** pipes play play
      In his dog-eared French *****-man

But I cannot, cannot say
     Tears of joy, in hydrant spray
The Hyades triumphant rainbow stay
     Cough your little fears away;

Hear the Star Spangled Francis Key play
Frenchmen play, play,
Little piggies counted play
Black white keys with little piggle-plumps play

Atone-al, A-tonal---atonal tonal sounds as if to say
"Getting married here to stay"
       All alone and all today
      Settle down if for a day
And who will hear the trumpet play
When *****-man Frenchman say
"Where? Home of the free" and stay

Keep your hands away
Never want to        let you say
               "Hear me, hear ye, all you weary, weary dreamers
         But never left your confidence like Russell-rustle leaf-blown willow-white

You fill them up with seventy two pay
      Make a kite, to(k)night, allRight
      Thank god for the fleas in the right
Hairless creatures for to sway

I threw the dog overboard yesterday
The day before, the day
And if you'd wanted it to stay
You should've say, you should've say

But never let my hand betray
The vein, the line, the artery
Of arterial shells bombastically
Loquacious to a fault, this day

They say "You want another day"
They say "You never wanted say"
They say "You wasted every day"
They say "They say, they say, they say"

                   But e'er forget, ne'er forget
                   I'll despise you abandon heaven for earth to get
       And leave your money, your millions behind
       For mansions with my Lord to find

But in the ceiling never was a god to pray
Simone13 Aug 2018
down the Valley
where the river flows
flocks of graves
swarmed with crows

ashes to ashes
turn dust to dust
where their metals lei
and turned to rust

stenches of blood
screams and decay
where wasted sheds
are left astray

down the Valley
where the river flows
are plumps of graves
where flowers grow
Hannah Morse Feb 2014
The scent of wild garlic plumps the air
in the narrow, deep valley of the brook.
The oak trees either side
reach across, clasping hands,
trapping the heat and the smell.

A trout ***** up stream,
jumping the shallow current.
Crouching on the pebble beach,
two children watch it land,
in the depths further up.

'Fish! That's what we need, fish!'
He blunders up the river,
hands outstretched,
as though to catch the trout in his palms.

Deepening the rock pool,
scuds scurrying out of sight,
the girl notices the thin, black water slug
stretched out on her chalky forearm.

Pincering it off with her fingers,
she doesn't scream until
spotting the ****** mark,
as the leech reaches up
to wrap itself round her finger.

With a flick of her wrist,
it splacks onto a dry, flat rock.
She crushes its body with a pebble,
and the smell of iron mingles with the garlic.
Paul Hardwick Aug 2012
I am sick of all the adverts
that promise this and that
lady's rub this on your skin
it plumps up the fats
takes out all the wrinkle's
and yes you *** looks big in that
but with a bit of liepposucktion
we can get rid of that.
Cali Courtney Oct 2014
Your breath on my neck isn't intended to make me warmer, you want to make my spine tingle with questions, you want me in your bed tonight. The air is getting colder as the sun oozes out of our sight. Your eyes get a darker green when you're determined. My blood plumps, you can hear it, your eardrum blasts my heartbeat in its cave. Your eyelids slump and unfold again slowly. I'm panicking. Your skin is white and my thoughts are black and I cant seem to grasp your morals but you have me in the palm of your hand, and I am the lady bug trying to creep out of the crevices.
the distance between us, a commodious of wants and needs and hopes, possibly dreams. You have bad intentions, as do I, but we are so lovely, alluring in a combination
Cassia Jan 2018
A haughty ruler, dainty crown
His kindly wife a kingdom down
He plumps his plume, orders round
A second dinner, a starving crowd
His army fails, his ally falls
His kingdom wastes with ignored calls
A brand new plague; treated health
Fancy clothes and booming wealth
That is what is truly wrong
A tyrant waning, missing wrong.
I have this one memorized.
Emmanuel Chikody Aug 2016
I thought they said the beautiful ones are not yet born?
But here is one I've met and she makes heads turn
Melting mortals mountains like wax with just a smile
Her acquistion of this exquisite charm is vague 
once upon a time she must have been a priestess 
The sculptor sculpted out this idyllic sculpture
From legs that were carved out of the finest wood
Hips tucked in like the wings of an eagle
To a belly which spreads out like the plains of the Serengeti 
Up to that soft round breast and clipped ******* that plumps the depth of feminine charms.
Along with a neck that boast of the only head
Having hairs that cascade down like zillions of waterfalls 
With molten eyes and succulent lips that leads to rapid volcano
Mother nature presents her utmost treasure

The enchantress!!
Yes! That's what I call her
At the sight of her,I disguise my feelings with a blank page
But my heart don't fail to complain about its encumbrance by the rib cage
Every idea branded to prove this feeling is lust
Shows a clean pair of heels leaving the air with dust
Like every mortal  mountains I've always had a deep crater inside of me
Cause by the eruption of molten magma the first day she was beside me
But I can't let her know;Not now that my valley are filled with settlers
Caves filled with beast and I've become a dung site for birds
Probably when my coast is clear and I have a clean free flowing tributary
Then she can come and make me her place of sanctuary 
Adorn me with her idols and fill me with echoes of her enchantment.
The enchantress!!
Dulce Berkowitz Nov 2017
There will be a soft rain and the smell of the ground and swallow circling with the shining sound and frogs in the pools singing at right and wild plumps trees in quivering white Robins will were there feathery fire. Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; and not one will know  of the war, no one will care at lost when it’s done no one will mind, neither birds or trees will be making perished uteri; and spring herself when she awakes at down would secretly now that were done.
Mohd Arshad May 2018
Open the latch,
Push the door
with a dab,
Get into
Room into rooms,
Couch curiously,
Look at the cascades
On their walls,
Feel their flow,
Walk in the gallery,
Smell roses in the vases,
Kiss their cheeks,
Hear the piano
on the table,
Take out icy plumps
From the basket,
Eat them,
And when all is finished,
Come out of the poem,
And tell the world
What you've experienced!

— The End —